


Listening

by 8ball



Category: One Piece
Genre: M/M, Sanji plays the trombone, Zoro plays the bass, music AU!, original au by Riley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27583339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8ball/pseuds/8ball
Summary: Zoro had always wondered why Sanji wasn't a string instrument player, with hands like his. Clever, beautiful hands that were meant to be watched and seen, moving delicately but intricately to astound the world. Zoro’s own hands were rough and large, sometimes feeling clumsy next to the thin strings. But Sanji’s hands were perfect, like they really were made to be placed against polished wood and brass. He wondered if the skin was as soft as it looked.
Relationships: Roronoa Zoro/Vinsmoke Sanji
Comments: 12
Kudos: 180





	Listening

**Author's Note:**

> Commission for Riley, (@vinsmooch1) and their amazing music au which you can find here!!: https://twitter.com/vinsmooch1/status/1295866884307353601  
> title inspired by the poem 'Listening' by Amy Lowell which i'll include in the end notes

-o-

_ It is you that are the music, not your song _

_ The song is but a door which, opening wide,  _

_ Lets forth the pent-up melody inside _

Excerpt from  _ Listening _ by Amy Lowell

-o-

  
  
  


At 9:43pm Zoro knocked on the Baratie’s back door, nose scrunching up in distaste at the smell coming from the nearby dumpsters. He checked his phone, noting the several missed calls from Sanji he was only now just seeing, and cursed. 

He was almost two hours late. 

The door slammed open hard enough to make Zoro jump, and send some unfortunate cat scurrying away in fright. Standing in the doorway, Sanji looked about four times as pissed as usual, holding a crumpled apron in one hand and a distressingly large kitchen knife in the other. Zoro swallowed. 

“You’re late.” The cook hissed, pointing said knife Zoro’s way. 

The green-haired boy held up his hands in surrender, trying to think of some excuse. Finding the restaurant in the dark was hard enough on a normal day, and sometimes the roads really did seem like they were switching under Zoro’s feet with every step. Today had been stressful, with several notes from teachers complaining about lack of effort and class participation requiring a parent signature from home. How he was supposed to politely explain to his sensei that classes were so mind-numbingly boring they put him to sleep in less than a minute was frankly beyond him. 

All that to say there’d been a lot on his mind on top of the usual anxieties that came with this weekly meeting with the blonde. Sue him, he was fucking bad with directions and didn't trust google maps. 

“Sorry.” Zoro muttered, at a loss for what else to say really. He readjusted the huge instrument on his back, feeling the wood press uncomfortably against his spine. 

Sanji surveyed him from the door, eyes narrowed in annoyance and knife still raised. Sighing, he lowered it and turned around, ushering the other boy inside with a flick of his wrist. 

“You could have at least answered your phone so I knew you weren't dead.” Sanji grumbled over his shoulder, retreating behind a counter to store the knife and the apron. 

“Didn't hear you call.” 

Sanji gave him an unimpressed look, carefully but quickly wiping down the counter in front of him. There was an unlit cigarette behind his ear that Zoro frowned at. 

“Oi, you said you’d only fuck up your lung capaciy once a week, cook.” He said, motioning to the stick. 

The cook reached up, absently fingering the cigarette as he walked past Zoro and out into the main dining area, dark in the closed hours. Zoro followed him out, scowling at his back.

“I didn't smoke it, did I? Not that I didn't consider it, waiting for you to finally show up. And hurry up and get set up already!” 

Still frowning, Zoro got over to the front of the room, unzipping his case and glancing at the sheet music Sanji had gotten ready for them. An unoriginal modern number that had a lot of low notes but a nice jazz swing in the middle. Next to him, Sanji picked up his gleaming trombone, huffing out a few practice notes before reaching over to his stand and flicking on the metronome. 

“On the third?” He asked, glancing quickly over to Zoro as the other boy got his bow in position. The green-haired boy nodded. 

“One.” Zoro counted, moving his head silently to the half-second swings and the blonde raised his instrument. 

Sanji’s foot tapped to the second beat, and then they began. 

-o-

They met every Wednesday at the Baratie, the one off day that the restaurant had. Acoustics in large dining halls beat cramped bedrooms any day, and it was an excuse to perform a little better, take a new perspective on the sounds they were making. All music changed after dark anyways. 

Zoro still wasn't sure when Sanji had switched from hating him to tolerating him or what had caused that switch. He only knew that he was grateful for the change of heart, having come to the conclusion back at the beginning of middle school that whoever the temperamental blonde was, Zoro liked. Some higher power must have decided fucking with Zoro’s love life would be hilarious though, because the cook  _ hated _ him at the start. 

Granted, Zoro could have been nicer. Probably could have made an effort to not wear stained uniform shirts and stop scowling all the time. Probably shouldn't have insulted Sanji in every other breath either. But being 13 and a little infatuated was confusing as hell, and Zoro had only ever been good at two things: playing the bass, and fighting. 

Sanji played the trombone, which was a very unfortunate instrument to play before one’s arms were grown to full length. At 13, Sanji had struggled, and overcame, but still endured the occasional humiliation of not being able to physically reach the note. Zoro could only admire his dedication. Well, admire and also make fun of, because really, what kind of kid chose an instrument that required  _ reach _ to get the right sound? And before puberty even finished? Sanji seemed to have developed a kind of sixth sense for aggressive thoughts though, and made sure to constantly throw nasty looks Zoro’s way which eventually turned into fully formed insults and then scuffles. Zoro didn't mind in the end. He was getting attention from his crush, so it kind of worked out in a weird way. 

But then the youth orchestra they both played for got asked to put on a concert at some retirement home, and Sanji and Zoro got assigned a duet verse in the middle of the piece. Neither boy was pleased by this, Zoro because, despite his confused heart palpitations towards the blonde, didn't see how some wannabe-jazz trombonist could sound even somewhat decent next to his deep string instrument. Sanji seemed to agree with the sentiment, because for days they’d gone begging to the music teacher for some kind of switch. 

Sometimes Zoro wonders about where he’d be if that teacher  _ had  _ let them switch out. It was thanks to their forced collaboration that the bassist learned that Sanji was actually a phenomenal musician, someone who genuinely got  _ into _ the music and gave his all for the few notes he was given. Shallowly, Zoro had assumed the pretty boy was like every other ‘good’ musician: fast at reading music and able to repeat it all acuractly, but without heart. Unfortunately, this meant Zoro’s crush was solidified into a point of no return, and he was drowning in private sessions with the blonde. He learned that Sanji’s dad owned a restaurant, and that Sanji thought very highly of his own culinary skills, thus earning the nickname of  _ cook _ , which Sanji went from hating, to tolerating, to expecting. Zoro, in turn, admitted that he kept up with kendo practice when he had spare time, and that got them talking about martial arts and fighting styles, and before either of them knew it, they were friends. 

He hadnt meant to fall in love, of course. If anything Zoro had been avoiding it, because he loved the bass, he loved Kuina, and he loved music. That was plenty, and anything more would be heavy and cumbersome. Sanji had arrived with his thin fingers and bright eyes, nothing but boney elbows really, and Zoro had been entirely unprepared. He thought love was supposed to be a sweet, gradual thing. No one had told him to expect a hurricane. 

“Do you know what you’re gonna play for your solo show yet?” Sanji asked, sliding into the seat across from Zoro, handing him his usual prize of a solitary beer pillaged from the restaurant's liquor fridge. Zeff would never notice or even give a shit, and Sanji had agreed long ago to the mustual exchange of vices: he’d smoke his one terrible little cancer stick and Zoro would have his illegal beverage, and together they’d fuck up some part of their body just a tiny bit and heavily shame each other into containing these specific desires. 

Zoro took two gulps of the beer, licking his lips and studying the worn leather of his bass case. They’d discussed this endlessly just yesterday, and the day before, the cook not letting up about what the bassist should play or how he should play it. There was enormous pressure on all the students for their final individual performances of the year, with scouts from high profile music universities guaranteed to be present in the seats. The music piece would be expected to be something classical and famous, and Sanji was trying to convince Zoro to just go with a basic Boccherini or some shit. 

“Do you?” Zoro countered, not in the mood to discuss the many dead geniuses of the composing world. Judging from the cook’s scowl, the other boy hadn't decided on his own music either. 

“If you can do some kind of Mozart rendition-” Sanji began, and Zoro nearly upturned the table. 

“Why the hell do you want me to play some boring _classic_ so damn much?”

Sanji glared at him, fibling with the cigarette he was probably dying to smoke. Zoro glared back, waiting. 

“Everyone’s going to want to be some kind of original shitty butterfly, ok? We’re gonna get 15 kids that think they’re hot shit playing a whole mess of weird ‘original’ crap, and it's gonna give the scouts a migraine.” Sanji muttered, eyes drifting over to Zoro’s beloved bass. “But if you go up on stage and show them that you can put your own spin on something old, I bet they’ll love it.”

Zoro hid his sigh in the beer can, repressing the urge to roll his eyes. Arguing with Sanji for the hundredth time over what the  _ scouts _ wanted and what the  _ scouts _ would be looking for would end in another shouting match, and he didn't feel like going to bed angry tonight. 

The truth was that Zoro didn't give a fuck what some old guy with a clipboard would think of his music. He only had his eyes on one performer from one section of one music school, and he wasn't going to get in by doing what  _ other  _ people wanted. He’d play his own music and blow the world away, and he didn't understand why Sanji couldn't  _ grasp  _ that. 

“So that's what you’ll be doing then? Playing for some asshole you don't even know?”

Sanji slammed a palm down on the table.

“Jesus, Zoro, can you not be all high and mighty about this? They’ll be deciding which school you get into! Of course you should play for them!” 

Zoro gave him a quick, sharp look. 

“You mean whatever school  _ we _ get into.” 

Silence came from the other boy, making Zoro’s brow tick in irritation. The solo shows were next week, and as anxious as Sanji seemed to be about deciding the bassist’s future, he was oddly reluctant to comment on his own. 

“Cook-”

“We better get going, I don't want Zeff yelling at me over the electric bill again.” Sanji interrupted, pushing past the table to get to the alley with his lighter. Groaning, Zoro got up, grabbing his case and ignoring the remains of the beer in favor of chasing the blonde. 

“Curly, you’re gonna do fine.” He called, catching the door as it nearly clipped his chin. 

Sanji scoffed, somehow giving Zoro a sour look even as he leaned into the flame cupped in his hands. 

“Yeah, I’ll do  _ fine _ .” He muttered. 

Zoro scowled harder, readjusting his bass to his back. 

“So what's the problem?” He asked, watching the way half of Sanji’s cigarette seemed to turn to ash in one go, smoke billowing up. 

“They're not looking for  _ fine _ , marimo. They’re looking for fucking exceptional.”

_ No shit _ , Zoro thought, still not getting it. At his befuddled silence, Sanji sighed, fully turning to him.

“Look, have you even noticed how many hours I’m pulling with the restaurant?” He asked, putting out his cigarette on the brick wall. 

“What does that matter?” 

The lamp across the street, the only source of light now, flickered a bit before buzzing back into a steady glow. Zoro watched carefully as Sanji bit his lip, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. He had a way of being effortlessly beautiful in such small motions that sometimes it hurt to look at him. 

“I’m changing focuses, ok? Things are about to get fucking real with university and adult shit, and I can't be hanging on some instrument I’m only somewhat decent at anymore. I  _ like _ cooking, and Zeff’s gonna take me on full time if I prove I’m committed.”

The words hit Zoro like cold water. 

“But you love the trombone.” He protested, still confused. 

“Yeah, well, doesn't mean it's in the cards.” Sanji replied quietly, shrugging his thin shoulders and staring fixedly at the ground. 

Zoro looked down at his feet, feeling enormously frustrated. It wasn't actually like this was the biggest surprise in the world, but there was something so  _ bad _ about the idea of Sanji not playing that he couldn't pin down. 

It came at him like a train that the reason he was so upset was because the days of playing  _ with  _ Sanji might soon be behind him. 

“Don't look so miserable, I told you, I like cooking and I’m damn good at it.” Sanji muttered, forming a half smile as he ruffled Zoro’s hair. There was a concerned uplift of his brow that the green-haired boy wanted to smooth out with his thumb. 

“I gotta go.” He mumbled, suddenly desperate to be alone, wary that Sanji could read the hurt on his face. 

He regretted it immediately, Sanji’s hand pulling back in a jerking, flinching motion. Something akin to fear passed over the cook’s face before sliding behind a tired smile.

“Oh, ok. See you tomorrow for class.” 

Zoro nodded, already half turned away. Like a coward, he fled silently. 

  
  


-o-

  
  


The original song goes like this: a small, breathtaking crescendo that came too soon in the ballad of Kuina’s life, cutting off the refrain where her words were meant to alter paths. What has always, and would always make Zoro see red was the response to it all. Those words of  _ she was so talented _ , as if her meaning in the universe could be boiled down to the practice she had put into moving strings on wood. Sometimes Zoro wants to find rooftops to scream off of, yelling and yelling and yelling because she was more than a talent, more than a performance, more than the world had ever known and now it never would. 

So he played, remembering the way her fingers bled on cat-gut strings and the way she had smiled when they calloused. He didn't play  _ because  _ of her, not when committing his own dream to her death would feel selfish and unsustainable. But Zoro did play for her very often though, and sometimes even still  _ with  _ her.

The instrument was hers, after all. 

So he chose to play songs that had enormous, daunting crescendos. He’d always liked it that way because endings were meant to be everything extravagant that life couldn't complete, and it was meant to wrap it up in something beautiful. She used to call him crash because his sounds were loud and a little unorganized. He’d only ever wanted to be heard though, and anyways what was the point of being quiet when you were alone?

Maybe that's why he fell in love with the bass too. It was big and deep and  _ strong _ , and he wanted to become a part of the wood, wanted to feel the twang of the strings in his bones. There was some hidden power in the sounds, he was sure of it. If he could take his time and hone his skill, he’d be able to bring that power out one day. 

Now, alone in his room with his thoughts of Sanji and music and the future, he contemplated what it’d mean for him to be going on alone in a world so different from the other boy. Zoro knew that Sanji wasn't lying about being happy as a chef- he  _ had  _ always liked cooking, and he was good at it. If Zoro was being honest with himself, the fear wasn't even that he’d never get to play with the blonde again, it was that they’d never hang out again. What if Sanji thought they didn't have anything in common anymore once he stopped playing? Or what if he realized that outside of music, Zoro really wasn't much? 

He shook himself, checking his finger’s positions again to make sure he hadn’t zoned out too badly. He always stayed perfectly in position though, hands relaxed in their rightful place on the strings and the bow moved swiftly. Looking at his own hands, he imagined the slightly thinner bones of Sanji’s pale fingers, quiet and graceful. What would hands like that look on his bass, long and beautiful against something so lovingly tended to by Zoro? 

He wanted to see it. Just once, before Sanji called it quits and dedicated himself to working as a chef. And more than that too, god, he wanted Sanji to know the way it  _ felt _ to have all that sound travel through his bones in a way that a brass instrument could never capture. It’d be- not a love poem but- it could be something, couldn't it? Not a goodbye, but a kind of prelude to the different paths they were taking. And Sanji with his bass-  _ Sanji with his bass _ . The thought of it alone nearly  _ killed  _ him. 

He groped around on his bed for his discarded phone, frantically typing out a somewhat legible text to the cook, asking him for time on friday.

Shit-cook: I thought you were pissed at me

Cursing, Zoro rubbed at his eyes.

Marimo: not pissed

Marimo: sorry

Marimo: friday?

He stared at his phone for a solid minute before the text bubble popped up, Sanji’s reply spreading a relieved smile on his face. 

Shit-cook: ok

He closed his eyes, clutching the device to his chest for a moment before collapsing in his bed. 

An old Jaccometi piece played lazily in his head, nothing but simple c chords and the occasional scale change, singing  _ stumble into silence, all you uneasy things _ . 

  
  


-o-

  
  


“Why would you want me to do that?” Sanji asked, looking a little horrified after Zoro made his request. 

Zoro flinched visibly, and the cook shook his head, correcting himself. 

“I mean- I know your bass was hers, so I know I shouldn't touch it.” He added, still looking uncomfortable. 

Zoro appreciated the sentiment, even if it wasn't entirely correct. It was precisely  _ because  _ it was so important to the bassist that he wanted Sanji to play it.

“Why did you get into music?” Zoro asked instead of addressing all that.

“Why did you?” Sanji spluttered. 

“Asked you first.”

Sanji looked like he was going to argue, but sighed instead, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. He glanced over at Zoro’s large bass, set up for use. 

“It's always been about- creating, I guess.” Sanji said, haltingly. His fingers fluttered delicately, moving up and down his own arm as if he was cold. “I wanted to  _ create  _ things, wanted to create dishes that people would love and appreciate and then- then I thought I could do that too, with music.”

He swallowed, looking down, to the side, anywhere but at Zoro. 

“But I couldn't. Not the way you can. And it hurt to figure that out, even though I should've known from the start.” Sanji admitted quietly, his gaze finally going back to the other boy. 

“My playing is  _ good _ because it  _ has to be _ .” Zoro took Sanji by the shoulder, forcing him to look straight back into his eyes. “Because I’m playing for myself, yeah, but I’m playing for Kuina too and I  _ need _ her to hear me. I gotta make sure that every time I hold her bass she hears something worth listening too.”

“So why would you want me to play on it?” Sanji asked, a little desperately. 

“Because-”  _ you are so important to me _ . “I want you to.” 

“You don't understand,” Sanji said, shaking his head. “When you play- the music you make- it's like it stops time, and it's going to change the world, Zoro.”

“And your food won't!?” Zoro growled, angry now, offended by the self-deprecating tone. “Sanji, you take something necessary and make it amazing!”

“It's not the same-” Sanji began, but Zoro cut him off. 

“Of course it's not the fucking same! So maybe I go off and play for some music hall and you don't, so what? I’m still gonna come back to eat your food! You know that, right?”

Zoro watched the blonde, eyes widening at the way Sanji all but flinched out of his grip, those delicate fingers brushing off Zoro’s hand. 

“Cook, you  _ do  _ know I’ll come back, right?”

And Sanji- turned away. 

“Why would you?”

_ Because I’m in love with you, you absolute idiot,  _ Zoro wanted to scream.  _ Because I have  _ been _ in love with you and I’d still be in love with you even if your professional career was to burn string instruments.  _

“I want you to play my bass, cook.” He said instead, closer than he’d admit to begging. He didn't have any kind of answers left, the only thing else he could possibly do was  _ show _ . 

Sanji looked, if anything, more confused and disheartened. But he went forward anyways, grabbing the bow from the seat it was resting on. He was holding the bow like a spatula, and it made Zoro want to gromance. 

“First of all,” He said, grabbing the poor thing from out of the cook’s pale hand. “The bow’s not gonna try and run away. Relax your grip, like this.” 

Zoro demonstrated his hold on the wood, fingers kept away from the fine hairs. Sanji snatched it back, looking affronted. 

“I know that.” He muttered, a faint blush making his ears red. 

“Yeah, sure you do.” Zoro said, rolling his eyes. He ducked as Sanji tried to whack him with the bow.

“I  _ do _ . I’ve only seen you do it like a million times.” the blonde huffed. 

It was a pleasant surprise to think of Sanji watching him play, and it made Zoro perk up a little. Still, it was doubtful that anything the cook had picked up on would make him a magically knowledgeable bass player. 

“Whatever, just get into position.” Zoro said, kneeling before Sanji to adjust the height of the instrument. He watched the other boys shiny dress shoes move a few steps, coming to the back of the bass, and when he stood up the blonde had his hands positioned. 

Zoro had always wondered why Sanji wasn't a string instrument player, with hands like his. Clever, beautiful hands that were meant to be watched and seen, moving delicately but intricately to astound the world. Zoro’s own hands were rough and large, sometimes feeling clumsy next to the thin strings. But Sanji’s hands were  _ perfect _ , like they really were made to be placed against polished wood and brass. He wondered if the skin was as soft as it looked. 

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Zoro leaned forward to point to the c cord position, holding his left hand up to show how his fingers went. Sanji copied easily, drawing the bow across quickly. Zoro winced at the shrieking note, played so haphazardly even if it technically was in tune. 

“It's not the trombone, idiot. You don't need as much pressure.” He said, pointing to Sanji’s harsh grip. 

“Yeah, well, I know that  _ now _ .” Sanji said, grimacing.

“You gotta-

“Yes, I get it, I don't know what the fuck I’m doing and you do, god!” Sanji made a motion like he wanted to throw the bow, but controlled himself. He fixed a frustrated, tired look at Zoro. “ _ Why _ am I doing this?”

His large blue eyes stared beseechingly at Zoro, but whatever answer the bassist could have possibly come up with fell short of the image in front of him. 

How could he explain that the combination of Sanji with Kuina’s bass created the whole of who Zoro was? It was like someone had scooped out his insides and arranged it into the shape of the blonde and the instrument, the only thing missing being the sound. 

So he didn't respond at all. Instead he reached forward boldly, taking Sanji’s slim wrist in his hand. 

He felt his own face heating up, unused to touching the other boy with anything other than a type of violence or playfulness. Sanji was docile in his grip though, moving as Zoro instructed, so Zoro moved his hand in the correct sequence, trying to mimic a mirrored version of his own playing. When he looked up, Sanji was staring at him. 

“I just-” Zoro cut himself off, utterly lost and feeling his ears burn. 

Sanji remained mercifully quiet, eventually shaking his head a little and moving back to the strings. He swept the bow back and forth too quickly again, his hand twitching minutely and causing a slight  _ twang  _ that made Zoro’s teeth hurt. Both boys hissed at the harsh noise. 

“No, let me.” Zoro murmured, glancing at the poor bow. He’d probably have to re-string it later with new hairs. Somehow, Sanji was still pliant in his grip though. 

“I don't-”

Sanji cut himself off as Zoro moved behind him, swallowing down on his frantically beating heart. He placed both hands on the other boy, mirroring his hands but correcting the position. It was desperately intimate though, and he felt like he’d made a mistake, placing himself so close. He couldn't see Sanji’s face either, only felt the slight heat his body gave off and the stiffness of his hands. 

“Just- like this, ok?” Zoro said, much quieter this time. He guided the blonde’s hands holding the boy by the wrists, and directed his other hand to the string, finger by finger. 

The smooth sweep of the bow along the strings was soft and imperfect, but made a good sound. Zoro moved Sanji’s wrist back and forth, the same note coming out clearer with each brush and filling up the room. Practically limp in his hold, Sanji stopped playing the moment Zoro stopped directing. The silence fell on them quickly and heavily, and Zoro felt awkward as his eyes roamed the line of the other boy’s tense shoulders. 

“You didn't answer me.” Sanji said softly, eyes still on the strings. Zoro swallowed. 

“Can I keep going?” He asked instead, ignoring the aching question again. 

After a long second, Sanji nodded his head, turning it just enough to catch Zoro’s eye before flickering away. 

“Whats, uh, how do you do G?” Sanji asked, still so quiet. 

Zoro took his own hand away silently, placing his fingers directly on the string to show. When he removed his hand, Sanji seemed to fumble.

“Where do my fingers go?” Sanji asked softly, voice almost a whisper. Zoro could hear him just fine from where he was, his face so close to the cook’s pale neck. 

He followed the cuffs of Sanji’s dress shirt down to his knuckles, his fingertips brushing the skin there indulgently. He was pushing his luck and he knew it, but Sanji was still and waiting, allowing those touches somehow. Zoro’s hand engulfed the cook’s slightly smaller one, his fingers braced over fingers, demonstrating where to move. 

“Like this.” Zoro said, just as gently. With his other hand on Sanji’s bow hand, he moved, pushing the sound out through the other boy’s hands, watching the movement transfer over. Sanji didn't even try to move on his own, giving himself completely over to whatever Zoro directed. 

“Makes my hands itch.” Sanji murmured, his eyes flicking to Zoro, then back to the strings. 

“It's the vibration.” Zoro said, gaze transfixed on the nearly invisibly blonde eyelashes so close to him. He didn't know eyelashes could even be pretty, but then again just about everything about Sanji was something to behold. 

“Why am I doing this, Zoro?”

Again, the correct words eluded the bassist, and he struggled on what to say. It was the way the cook’s fingers pressed so tenderly against the wood that felt like it was undoing him, and he moved his own hand once more.

“This is you.” He said, his fingertip running down the paper thin skin across the knuckles of Sanji’s hand. Going further, his fingers brushed the polished wood just below. “And this is me.” He swallowed, blinking rapidly. “I don't know how to say these things.”

Sanji’s hand twitched where it rested on the strings, causing a nearly silent little twang. He opened his mouth and closed it, staring hard at Zoro’s fingers. 

“We’re...together?”

“Yes.”

“...And you want us together.” 

“ _ Yes _ .” 

Sanji whirled on him, the bow nearly falling from his lax grip, his eyes devouring Zoro’s face for any hint of misgiving. 

“Zoro-” He sounded a little broken, but whatever Sanji was or wasn't going to say dripped into the cracks of the floorboards and disappeared as he leaned forward, kissing Zoro.

He’d never known a kiss could feel  _ loud _ . Throwing his arms up to engulf Sanji, Zoro pulled the blonde closer, crushing him against his own chest as the bow clattered to the floor. The cook reached up, fingers carding gently through green hair before folding down, settling on his shoulders. Zoro had been so preoccupied imagining Sanji’s hands on his bass that he’d never stopped to consider the marvel of Sanji touching  _ him _ . In the most innocently tender way he simply  _ held _ the other boy, palms pressed gently into Zoro’s shoulder blades. Something about the way he was being treated so softly made him  _ ache _ . 

“I’m in love with you.” Zoro gasped against Sanji’s lips, unwilling to loosen his hold even a little. “And I’m not ok with you leaving music behind if it means I can't see you anymore.”

Sanji made a small, dying sound, his face flaring pink. 

“You can't just  _ say _ that, marimo.” 

“I mean it, cook.” And then Zoro grinned, leaning in until their noses brushed. “I want you in my life.”

“How can you say all that with a straight face…” Sanji groaned, burying his face in Zoro’s shoulder. 

The bassist kept grinning, humming a little into the smooth side of the cook’s exposed neck, letting his fingers  _ tap tap tap _ against Sanji’s hipbone. 

“I want you in my life too. Music or not.” Sanji whispered, and Zoro closed his eyes, finding the tempo by his frantic heart rate.  _ Requited love _ , he thought.  _ Played at 162 bpm, in G major. _

-o-

He played a basic as all hell Motzart for his final show, and received standing ovations by all scouts present. His teacher had written him a future recommendation based on the performance, and he spoke with several advisors about his many, many options. 

The real prize though, that was sitting on Sanji’s couch, playing with those delicate fingers while the cook leaned his head on Zoro’s shoulder. 

How would Sanji sound if he were an instrument of music, he wondered as his fingers skimmed the gentle lines of the blonde’s knuckles. Loud and brash and so fucking vivid, sure, but  _ painfully  _ gentle too. He’d whisper across skin and down throats and sound like someone took ocean waves and put them in cherry wood. He’d break hearts with every note. 

“What are you thinking about?” Sanji asked, brushing the thumb of his free hand across Zoro’s cheek. It was the intimacy of the gestures like this that destroyed Zoro a little, and he felt weak in the knees. 

Zoro couldn't answer. Words jumbled and got stuck in his throat, so instead he pulled Sanji close, holding his back to his chest and running his hands down those slim arms. He guided the body in his hold to a position that ghosted the bass, nosing the warm skin of Sanji’s neck as he began to hum. 

“You trying to play me, marimo?” The blonde murmured, a smile in his voice that Zoro could hear. 

Zoro tapped the inside of Sanji’s wrist, moving up and down like there were strings there. Then he moved to the pale neck, brushing a barely there touch to the skin, following the bones to the collar of Sanji’s shirt. Where would his sounds come from? Maybe not his palms or his throat, maybe his chest. Somewhere soft and warm in his heart, and unspeakably beautiful. 

“You’d be a pain in the ass to play.” Zoro hummed, squeezing Sanji closer all the same.

“Excuse you,” The blonde huffed, still lax in the other boy’s hold. “I’d be-”

“Devastating.” Zoro interrupted, the word finally coming to him. “You’d sound so beautiful it would be devastating.” 

Sanji was quiet and still for a moment as Zoro continued to move his fingers slowly around, acquainting himself with the other boy’s body in small, new ways he’d never dreamed of before. He touched the dip of his clavicle, silently amazed by how everything about Sanji was long and graceful even down to his bones. 

“You’re gonna kill me one day, saying shit like that.” 

Zoro didn't have a good response to that. He just shrugged, still busy following the lines and curves of Sanji’s arms and shoulders, not yet willing to go beyond that. Slowing down his movements, he pressed a kiss to the cook’s temple. Then he lifted Sanji’s wrist, touching it to his ear. 

“What are you doing now?” The cook grumbled, trying to pull Zoro back down by the hem of his shirt. The bassist gave into the command momentarily, leaning in for a quiet kiss. 

“I’m listening to you.” Zoro murmured, pulling back again, this time to duck down and press his ear against Sanji’s chest, laughing at the momentary jump in muscles. 

Eventually Sanji relaxed, his hands coming up to pet through green hair. The bassist listened, counting as the tempo slowed down to a steady one-two, one-two. 

“‘It is you that are the music, not your song.’” Sanji quoted, voice already drifting off into a soft, sleeping murmur. 

“I love you.” Zoro hummed, whispering it like the final note to every song ever played. 

  
  


-o-

**Author's Note:**

> Listening by Amy Lowell
> 
> It is you that are the music, not your song.  
> The song is but a door which, opening wide,  
> Lets forth the pent-up melody inside,  
> Your spirit’s harmony, which clear and strong  
> Sing but of you. Throughout your whole life long  
> Your songs, your thoughts, your doings, each divide  
> This perfect beauty; waves within a tide,  
> Or single notes amid a glorious throng.  
> The song of earth has many different chords;  
> Ocean has many moods and many tones  
> Yet always ocean. In the damp Spring woods  
> The painted trillium smiles, while crisp pine cones  
> Autumn alone can ripen. So is this  
> One music with a thousand cadences.


End file.
